Hollow Victory
by evilgoddess62
Summary: And victory, he thinks, victory isn't supposed to feel like this, isn't supposed to feel hollow and empty, isn't supposed to feel like he's run the race only to find nobody waiting for him at the finish line.


A/N: Rating's probably too high, but better safe than sorry, and there is mention of blood and such. And it's pretty heavy on the angst. Why is that the only genre I can write? Meh, whatever. Written at eleven at night, so any typos are a result of tiredness.

**0000000000**

Sometimes he just wishes it would all go away, wishes he didn't have to deal with this pain, this feeling like his heart's been broken a thousand times over.

Strange, that he'd never felt like this during the war. He'd felt despair, yes, but every small victory they had, every small dent they managed to put in Voldemort's forces, made it bearable. But now that they'd won…

It hit him.

He'll never see them again. Never lose a game of chess to Ron, never have books suggested to him by Hermione, never ask for Herbology advice from Neville, never listen to one of Luna's crazy stories…

Never hold Ginny.

It overwhelms him and he thinks he might scream with the pain, because while he was fighting he could fool himself into thinking that it'd be all right, once Voldemort was defeated everything would be all right again, everything would be like it was supposed to, somehow they'd all be there, smiling and happy and _alive_.

But he'd won, and nothing had changed.

And victory, he thinks, victory isn't supposed to feel like this, isn't supposed to feel hollow and empty, isn't supposed to feel like he's run the race only to find nobody waiting for him at the finish line.

No, he decides, victory should feel like something wonderful, should feel like flying so high and so fast that nothing can catch him and tie him down, should feel like the thrill of excitement in his chest when he kissed her, should feel like thunder and lightning and all of a million things. Should feel like coming home.

Only he doesn't have a home anymore, does he? The Burrow was the first to fall, burning so bright he thought the image would never go away, always waiting for when he closed his eyes, Molly at the front, Arthur at the back, Bill and Charlie and the twins and even Percy darting around trying to hold off the Death Eaters but they kept coming, wouldn't be stopped, and all the Weasleys save Ron and Ginny fell with their home.

Hogwarts, too, had fallen, in just two days, the under-trained students no match for the Death Eaters. Voldemort had made it his headquaters, and when he died it came down with him. Even in death he'd mocked Harry, taking away the first place he'd ever belonged, destroying it so that he couldn't even walk in the hallways and pretend he could hear Ron and Hermione's bickering, or see the three of them sneaking around.

Even Privet Drive hadn't survived, the whole neighborhood gone in a Death Eater attack. And Grimmauld Place…it was still there, but it wasn't home. It was too empty, too full of ghosts and memories that were still too fresh, that still hurt too badly for him to be able to face them.

He's lost so much. All of them, their faces still so clear in his mind and dreams, so vivid that when he wakes he half expects them to be there, waiting, ready to shout "Surprise!". But then he remembers that they aren't there, haven't been there for what feels like eternity, and yet it seems like just yesterday he was waving goodbye, just after Bill and Fleur's wedding, everyone so full of hope.

Somehow, though, somehow the world goes on. People begin picking up the pieces of their shattered lives, begin trying to make a new world to live in. Remus becomes Minister, and Harry thinks, Good for him, because he needs something to distract him from the memory of Tonks, gone for…god, has it been six years already? He isn't all that sure.

He isn't sure of anything anymore, except that he doesn't belong now, that he, broken and battered and scarred, doesn't belong in the world he's saved, in the world full of relief and new hope and bright futures. He doesn't belong because now that Voldemort is gone everything is being rebuilt but he can't be, his scars run too deep and his nightmares are too terrible, and maybe if they were still here he'd be able to manage it, be able to deal with the pain and the memories.

But they aren't. So he does his best, and pretends that everything's okay, pretends that his soul has healed with his wounds. He fools the press, fools the whole world, but he doesn't fool himself. Late at night he wakes, shaking, still hearing the screams of all the people he'd loved and cared for, and of people he's had to kill, still seeing blood everywhere, and he knows that though injuries have long since turned to scars, his soul is still torn into pieces, still broken from everything he's seen and done.

He knows, too, that the world has no need for a broken hero, and there's no one left who would listen to him, soothe him after his nightmares and let him talk and bleed off the pain from the memories. So he smiles for the cameras whenever the world decides to remember him, and the rest of the time is left alone, with his hollow victory.


End file.
